


love of my life

by rhysgore



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Frottage, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Victim Blaming, kind of not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 02:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/rhysgore
Summary: Peter swallows, fidgets. “You had a wife?”Quentin nods. “Yeah.” He thinks back to the script notes. “Elizabeth.”





	love of my life

**Author's Note:**

> happy to announce that marvel is finally catering to my specific taste in men, which is "emotionally abusive sex pervert". thank you. i love him.
> 
> anyways. the warnings r there for a reason. but otherwise enjoy.

He  _ likes  _ Peter.

That’s the real rub of it, Quentin thinks, all things considered. He plays with the neck of his bottle, watching Peter nurse his lemonade. They’re in the bar together- surrounded by his crew, though Peter remains blissfully unaware of that fact- and he’s sipping an aggressively strong European beer, thinking about it. It’s hard  _ not  _ to like Peter Parker. He’s guileless, genuine, sweet, and he listens to every line Quentin feeds him with interest on his face so rapturous it’s almost heartbreaking.

He likes Peter, and maybe something a little more. Quentin can charm the pants off of practically anyone, but it’s a skill he’s had to hone over the course of his life. Peter, on the other hand, exudes a kind of natural charm that he doesn’t even seem to be aware of having. There’s just something about him that, despite everything, makes Quentin want to spend a little more time with him. Just in case he has to kill him tomorrow.

Quentin’s good at reading people, and he’s noticed over the length of their conversation that Peter has been periodically glancing at his hands. After he finishes his first drink, he brings it up.

“I get the feeling that you want to ask me about my family,” he says, “but you won’t, ‘cause you think that would be rude.” Peter’s eyes snap back up, guiltily, and he flushes under Quentin’s knowing smile. God, the boy has no poker face whatsoever. It’s  _ endearing. _ Quentin is certainly endeared by it.

“N-no sir, I wasn’t- I don’t-” He stumbles over his words. It’s cute, seeing him flustered, and he gets flustered so  _ easily.  _

“You don’t have to feel bad about it, Peter. I can hardly blame you for being curious.” Quentin conspicuously fiddles with his ring. He’s not used to wearing one, and he’s found it somewhat uncomfortable. Hopefully, Peter isn’t astute enough to notice the lack of a tanline. “Ask away. I don’t mind.”

Peter swallows, fidgets. “You had a wife?”

Quentin nods. “Yeah.” He thinks back to the script notes. “Elizabeth.”

“What was she like? If, um, if you want to talk about it.”

The script had had notes on that as well. Guterman had been almost annoyingly thorough in creating a supporting cast for the character of Quentin Beck. Quentin had made sure to read the several pages of material provided about what his fictitious wife had been like- her family, what she’d done, what she’d looked like- but sitting in front of Peter, he sees an opportunity. The mental image he’s so far had of this nonexistent woman shifts.

“She was… brilliant,” he says, softly. “She was an engineer before the Elementals, and she volunteered her skills to help fight against them. She helped design a lot of the equipment I use, actually. When I’m out there fighting, it reminds me of her.” He gives a half smile at that, and watches Peter lean in almost imperceptibly closer. “She was curious, whip-smart, and had a heart far, far too big for her…” Quentin lets his voice trail off, and looks Peter in the eye. “You remind me a lot of her, actually.”

The poor kid can’t hide his emotions to save his life. His mouth drops open and his cheeks go scarlet. He stares fixedly at the floor, and it’s a few moments before he’s able to regain any degree of composure.

“I’m sorry,” he says, which takes Quentin by surprise.

“Peter, are you  _ seriously  _ apologizing for bearing resemblance to my  _ dead wife?”  _ He asks. Peter screws his eyes shut, embarrassed. “Besides the fact that it’s  _ beyond  _ not your fault, it’s actually kind of comforting. Feels like she’s here, fighting with me.” Quentin leans forwards, invading Peter’s personal space to lift his chin up. He really is a beautiful boy, all soft edges, wide eyes framed by delicate lashes. His skills belie his age, but his face is honest at the very least. “Huh. You kinda look like her, too.”

If Peter’s face went any redder, Quentin would be convinced he was about to spontaneously combust. At a clear loss for how to respond to something like that, he reaches for his lemonade, shrugging off Quentin’s touch so he can suck it down hurriedly. Quentin watches him, shifting slightly in his seat. His pants, a double layer of superhero costume and body suit, are beginning to chafe uncomfortably.

He likes Peter, a lot. And the kid is almost irresistibly cute.

_ Is he a virgin?  _ Quentin wonders, idly, before remembering the enthusiastic, painfully sweet way that Peter had talked about that girl he had a crush on.  _ Definitely _ a virgin.

In the end, getting E.D.I.T.H. from Peter is easy- inasmuch as it was  _ easy  _ to fake the entire “Elementals, parallel earth” thing. He’s far too trusting, especially of people who even vaguely remind him of the late, great Tony Stark, and Quentin is already onto the next thing he wants, which is shaping up to be nothing less than Peter himself.

“Listen,” he says, catching Peter’s sleeve as the boy is about to get up. “I know that you want to get back to your friends, but…” He hesitates for a calculated second. “Since we might not get a chance to see each other for a while, I was wondering if you wanted to…”

He gestures to the doorway. Despite the destruction the Fire Elemental had wrought, the sounds of the carnival can still be heard faintly outside, cheering and fireworks.

Peter glances between him and the proffered door, and Quentin can see from his face that he’s thinking about his friends- that girl, and the couple he’d rescued from the Ferris wheel.

As if on cue, “Mr. Beck, my friends-”

Quentin cut him off. “They’re safe, Peter. Thanks to you. And probably asleep- it’s been a long, stressful day for them, and they deserve the rest.” He smiles, kindly. “Don’t you think you deserve to enjoy your vacation a bit? It seems unfair that you shouldn’t get some kind of reward for  _ literally saving the planet.” _

Flushing, Peter smiles, shyly. “I didn’t really do anything,” he murmurs. “You’re the one who nearly  _ died _ to take that thing out.”

“Oh, come on. Give yourself a little more credit. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

Still, the boy hesitates.  _ What a  _ stupidly  _ good kid,  _ Quentin thinks.

“Buy you one of those carnival masks?” He offers, after a moment. “You seem to be fond of them.”

At the memory of their first meeting, Peter laughs awkwardly.  _ Got him. _

“Alright,” he concedes. “But just for an hour or so. Then I  _ really  _ need to get back, ‘cause I’m preeetty sure my teachers think I’m dead.”

-

The carnival is--

Well, it’s lovely, but Quentin would be lying if he said he was paying any attention to it whatsoever. He leaves his cape and chestplate at the bar ( _ Nanotech, good for portability  _ he explains away after Peter asks where it went, getting an understanding nod in response), and E.D.I.T.H. in the hands of his crew before he absconds with Peter to the festival. 

The goal isn’t really to enjoy the lights, or the spectacle, or the myriad of attractions. The goal is to get blackout drunk. Or at least, to convince Peter that he is.

Luckily, alcohol is in no short supply, and he makes sure Peter is watching every time he buys a drink from a street vendor. The minute the boy’s back is turned, he discreetly dumps as much as he safely can. It’s simple, but effective- he can feel Peter getting more concerned with every drink as Quentin plays up his intoxication, getting louder and more physical as the hour goes on. Peter doesn’t say anything about it, though. Barely resists Quentin putting an all-too familiar arm around his shoulders.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asks later on, as Quentin’s on what appears to be his eighth drink.

“What? Yeah, ‘m perfectly fine,” Quentin replies. In reality, he’s only got about enough alcohol in him to be slightly buzzed, but Peter doesn’t need to know that.

“Alright.” Peter doesn’t entirely believe him, which is fine. 

It would be a mistake to say the night was going exactly as planned, because up until about an hour and a half ago, the  _ plan  _ was just to get those stupid glasses and leave. Quentin is well aware that this particular addition to the ruse is mixing business and pleasure, but since they’ve already got E.D.I.T.H., they should still be on schedule, small personal detour nonwithstanding. 

Besides, Quentin thinks, handing over a few koruny to buy the mask he’d promised, he’s willing to risk a brief lecture from his team for the chance to fuck Peter Parker.

Towards the end of the hour, he feigns losing control over his motor functions. Tripping, stumbling, leaning on Peter, leading them as discreetly as he can towards the edge of the festival, where it’s quieter, darker, where there are less people to see them. Eventually, Quentin spots a secluded alleyway, mostly out of view from the main road. Perfect.

He staggers sideways, groaning.

“Mr. Beck?!” Peter rushes towards him, and Quentin raises a hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“‘M alright,” he mumbles. “Just give me a moment.”

He takes a few steps forwards, into the alley, and like a particularly foolish mouse, Peter follows him. When he’s sure they’re out of view of the street, Quentin turns to him, and deliberately morphs the expression on his face from one of pained discomfort, to shock.

“Mr. Beck…?” Peter asks, quietly, and oh, even if that’s not his real name, Quentin could absolutely get used to the way it sounds coming out of Peter’s mouth.

“Elizabeth?” He asks, adjusting his voice until there’s just enough of a drunken slur in it. “Elizabeth? Is that you?”

He stumbles forwards, and Peter is too off guard to avoid being swept up in a positively rib-breaking hug. Quentin wraps his arms around the boy, and it’s not the first time he’s touched him, but he feels a thrill nonetheless. Peter’s body is trembling just slightly, in fear or confusion or possibly both. When Quentin buries his face in Peter’s hair, he can just faintly pick up the scent of shampoo under the sweat and ash from the earlier fight.

“Mr. Beck,” Peter says, trying his best to seem calm, “are you drunk?”

The question is no doubt rhetorical, and Quentin ignores it, forcing out a choked, breathy sob. “I missed you,” he gasps. “I thought you were dead. I  _ saw  _ you die.”

Up until those words, Peter had been trying to squirm his way out of Quentin’s arms. Now, he goes deathly still as he realizes what’s going on. 

“I’m not your wife,” he says. “I- it’s me, Peter. Mr. Beck, I’m not your-”

He’s trying to force Quentin to look at him, as if that will help. Trying to pull back. Trying to get away, as if Quentin’s going to  _ let  _ him.

“I love you,” Quentin whispers, and Peter goes silent.

If he had to guess what Peter is feeling- something he’s generally very good at- the first thing on the list would be  _ guilt.  _ After Quentin wove him such a magnificent sob story about his dead family, there is without a doubt some part of Peter that feels  _ bad  _ for having friends and a family to go back to. Quentin’s never really understood survivor’s guilt, but that doesn’t mean he can’t, or won’t, take advantage of it. Especially not with Peter all primed and painfully aware of the fact that every time Quentin Beck looks at him, all he sees is the ghost of someone he loved dearly, taken from him far too soon.

“I…” Peter says, and Quentin can  _ feel  _ him swallow. “I… love you, too?”

Desperate to provide comfort in whatever way he can. Regardless of how resentful Peter is about bearing the responsibilities given to him by his powers and by Tony Stark, he still martyrs himself  _ beautifully.  _ He’s not fighting back, now, deciding apparently that the best course of action is to go along with Quentin’s drunken delusions.

“We should probably get you somewhere you can rest,” Peter is saying. “You’re… stressed. It was a long day, and you nearly  _ died,  _ and-”

Before the boy can rationalize any more, Quentin cuts him off with a kiss.

Peter’s first reaction is to shove him away, and  _ wow,  _ Quentin knew he was superhuman, but it’s still surprising how powerful that scrawny little boy is. He stumbles backwards, head clocking on the alley wall behind him, and staggers, just barely managing to keep himself standing.

“Ow,” he snaps, clutching at his head.”

“Oh, crap,” Peter says. Quentin blinks, and the kid is at his side, helping him back upright. “I’m sorry Mr. Beck, I didn’t mean to, you just-” His face goes red.  _ Was that his first kiss?  _ “-Surprised me.”

Quentin clings to him, with a pathetic helplessness befitting a man both drunk and in mourning.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll be gentler…”

This time, he can see the terrified anticipation on Peter’s face as he leans in. If he hadn’t wanted Peter already,  _ that  _ would definitely have done it. Caught between not wanting to hurt an already aching friend, and the knowledge that this- whatever it was- was absolutely  _ not  _ appropriate, all Peter can really do is stand there in helpless indecision as Quentin leans in and kisses him again. True to his word, he’s more gentle this time, and Peter doesn’t fight back- just stays absolutely stock-still as he waits for Quentin to be done.

Quentin’s in no hurry to stop. Even if he’s slack and unresponsive, kissing Peter still feels good. His mouth is soft, warm, and something about what they’re doing, the knowledge that they  _ shouldn’t  _ be, is turning Quentin on. He’s hard before he knows it, like  _ he’s  _ the hormonal teenager here, not Peter.

_ Poor kid could really use some lessons in setting boundaries,  _ Quentin thinks. If this and Nick Fury’s “requests” are anything to go by, Peter Parker seems to have an inability to give anyone a firm “no”. It makes Quentin wonder how far he can take this little tryst before Peter will make any real attempt to push back.

He moves them backwards, firmly but not roughly. Part of him- a large part, if he’s being honest-  _ wants  _ to be rough. There’s something about the idea of brutally defiling such a sweet, innocent kid that gives Quentin a thrill, deep down in his guts. But he’s not stupid, and he’s been careful up until this point to avoid a straight-up fight with Peter. No sense in starting one now, especially since he’s already acquiescing, stepping back bit by tiny bit until his back hits the hard brick wall.

Quentin’s hands move to his waist, and he can feel Peter flinch before the boy is able to tamp down on his reactions. Unfortunate, as Quentin is enjoying Peter’s discomfort more than a little. Sighing, he breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against Peter’s.

“It’s been so long,” he whispers. This close, he knows Peter can smell the alcohol on his breath while he speaks.

“How drunk  _ are  _ you…?” Peter mumbles. It sounds like a joke, but he’s not laughing. He’s twitching, trembling, terrified, as if he’s only just realized the position he’s in, pinned down on a dark and empty street by a man, who’s practically a stranger, who doesn’t understand that Peter isn’t his dead wife. 

Really, Quentin thinks, it’s what he deserves for being so damn  _ naive. _ The kid hadn’t known him for more than forty-eight hours before he decided to give Quentin control of a massive cache of military-grade weapons, and complete backdoor access to every communications system on the planet to boot.

“We should- Mr. Beck, I need to go back to the hotel.  _ Please.”  _ His voice cracks. Pleading, as if he’s forgotten he has  _ superpowers. _

God, it’s all too much.

Quentin moves closer, pressing himself up against Peter, and the boy  _ yelps,  _ hands flying to Quentin’s shoulders. The intent to push him away is there, but all Peter does is grip at the fabric of his bodysuit.

“Beck,  _ no-” _

Finally, a refusal. Quentin ignores it.

“Missed you, Liz,” he slurs, rubbing his hips in little circles against Peter. He’s hard- he’s been hard for a while now. He can’t really help how arousing it is seeing Peter like this, scared and betrayed and still feeling  _ guilty  _ despite everything. The kid won’t reject him, not really, because in his eyes, Quentin is just a sad, lonely man, desperately clinging to the chance that maybe the woman he loves is still, miraculously, alive. “Need you, so bad.” 

He thrusts messily against Peter, and if the kid didn’t know what Quentin wanted before, he certainly does now. Peter squirms against him, inadvertently rubbing back against Quentin’s erection, half-sobbing.

“I need you,” Quentin repeats. His fingers dig into Peter’s skinny hips- he’s so small, even for a teenager, and Quentin wouldn’t have believed Peter had the kind of strength he did if he hadn’t been able to see it with his own eyes. So slight that it feels like Quentin could break him in half, if he wanted to.

He does, more than a little. He wants to actually fuck Peter- to lay him out and spread his twiggy legs, to  _ deflower _ him. He wants to shove his cock inside while Peter begs him not to. He wants to make Peter hurt, because he’s beautiful when he’s in pain. 

He settles instead for humping Peter’s thigh. The friction is good, satisfying despite all the layers of clothing in the way, and the sound of Peter’s shuddery, pained breathing as he cries is even better. His hands grasp Quentin’s shoulders, but he’s too weak to follow up on the threat that gesture represents. Too  _ giving  _ to deny poor Quentin Beck this one kindness.

“I love you,” Quentin whispers, kissing Peter’s neck. Peter says something in reply, and Quentin doesn’t quite catch it over the rustle of fabric and the roar of blood rushing in his own head. “Hm?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says.

Quentin looks at him, at the broken, tear-streaked expression on his face. Feels how Peter trembles against his touch. So scared, so  _ hurt,  _ and still,  _ still, he’s  _ the one apologizing.

It’s too much.

With a long roll of his hips and a loud gasp, Quentin comes. He ruts against Peter with an almost animalistic intensity as he does, riding out his orgasm, hips twitching as his cock spends itself. The bodysuit feels sticky around his crotch, and he knows it’s going to be an awkward conversation when he goes to get it cleaned, but in the moment, he can’t bring himself to feel even an ounce of regret.

Peter is still shaking, still crying. If he were a younger man, it might have been enough to get Quentin going again.

As it is, it’s almost time for the curtains to drop. Quentin slumps forward, and Peter just barely manages to catch him and keep him from faceplanting into the asphalt. Really, he’s just too good to exist- almost any other person in his situation would have just let Quentin fall.

Quentin’s always been able to cry on cue, and he does so now, letting fat tears slip from his half-closed eyes and drip down his cheeks.

“Liz,” he murmurs, going boneless in Peter’s arms.

_ Scene. _

One of his best performances to date. Which, Quentin thinks appreciatively, is saying a  _ lot. _

“I’m… going to take you back to my hotel now, Mr. Beck,” Peter says. He sniffles, loudly. “You’ve… you’ve had a lot to drink. You need to sleep some of it off.”

Quentin can’t argue with that, in part because he’s currently pretending to have passed out. Eyes closed, he lets his body remain limp, even as Peter swings through the air with him in tow.

When they stop, Peter knocks against what sounds like a window.

“Peter?!” A new voice, confused and hushed. “Oh my God, is that guy dead?!”

“No, he’s-”

“Wait, is that  _ Mysterio??  _ What happened to him?!”

“He just had a little too much to drink. Listen, Ned-”

“You went  _ drinking  _ with  _ Mysterio?!” _

“What?! No! Well, yes- no-” He stumbles over his words. “Look, I didn’t drink, okay? He did, and he-”

Peter cuts himself off. Quentin can practically  _ feel  _ him debating whether or not to tell his friend the details.

“Just help me get him on his side, alright?”

There’s another pair of hands on him, unfamiliar as they manhandle him into the hotel room and set him down on a surprisingly plush couch. One of them, probably Peter’s friend, props his head up on a pillow.

“Should we take his, um, armour off?”

“Lets just leave him,” Peter says, quietly. “He’s… I don’t want to wake him accidentally.”

“Alright.” Silence for a moment. “So, what’s he like? Like, he seems pretty cool but I don’t wanna assume because you said that a lot of the Avengers seemed different in person, and-”

“Can we talk about something else, please?” Peter practically  _ snaps,  _ nerves making his voice high and thin. “I mean- um-”

The poor kid stumbles, tries to cover his tracks, and Quentin can’t help but wonder how Peter’s been able to keep his secret identity  _ secret  _ for so long when he’s clearly such an awful liar. 

“Look, I’m really tired, so I’m- I’m just gonna go to bed, alright?”

“Alright.” The other boy doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but he apparently respects Peter enough to know not to press the issue.

Clothing rustles, presumably Peter stripping out of his stealth Spider Suit. Quentin badly wants to look- if nothing else, to see if he left a mark on Peter’s bare hips- but he restrains himself.

“G’night, Ned,” Peter says.

“Night, Peter,” his friend replies.

Everything goes quiet after that, though Quentin can’t imagine Peter is asleep yet. He’s probably staring at the wall, wide awake, trying to process what just happened to him, trying to rationalize what Quentin did to him. Without being able to see his face or hear him speak, it’s harder to parse what Peter’s feeling, but Quentin can hazard a guess. Disgust. Confusion. Shame. Plenty of shame. The fact that he didn’t say anything to his friend about it is proof enough of that.

Quentin, on the other hand, doesn’t have to deal with anything like that. The couch is comfortable, he’s more tired than he expected, and it’s not long before he finds himself drifting off into a calm, dreamless sleep.

-

When he wakes the next morning, the first thing Quentin registers is how godawfully sticky his pants are. No surprise there, after he came in them and then left them to dry against his skill. Still kind of gross, though.

The second thing he registers is that the reason he’s awake is that he’s being frantically shaken by someone. When he cracks his eyes open, it’s a boy that he doesn’t know, but who looks vaguely familiar nonetheless. 

_ Peter’s friend,  _ he thinks, frowning.  _ The kid from the Ferris wheel? _

It only takes him a moment to slip into character, groaning slightly as he’s roused from sleep.

“Ugh,” he mumbles. “Stop, you’re hurting my head.”

“S-sorry,” the boy says. “Peter told me to wake you up, Mr… um, Mysterio?”

The kid’s slightly in awe. Quentin takes the boost to his ego, and doesn’t bother to correct him.

“Where am I?” He asks, feigning a struggle to sit up.

“Our hotel. We have to leave soon, so Peter said you should probably go, but-”

“Where,” he begins, then coughs. That, he doesn’t have to feign- his mouth is uncomfortably dry. “Where is Peter?”

The kid- Ned, Quentin remembers- hesitates.

“Where did you two go last night?” He asks. 

Quentin tamps down on his surprise, both at Ned’s astuteness, and the fact that he’s bold enough to actually look him in the eye and voice his suspicions.

“We stopped at a bar. Then we went to the carnival for a while.” Neither of those statements are lies. “I thought Peter deserved a break. I think I may have had a little too much to drink, though, because I can’t remember much after that. Why do you ask?” Quentin tilts his head. “Did I get us into trouble?”

Ned raises his hands, quickly backpedaling. “No! Not at all. He’s just been acting a little… weird.”

“Well, he did nearly see his best friend get burnt alive by a thirty-foot tall lava monster that I only barely managed to keep from incinerating the world,” Quentin points out, smiling wryly. “Spider-Man or not, that’s a lot for someone his age to deal with. I was worried for him- I still am- but I have to say, it’s reassuring to know he has someone like you looking out for him.”

Ned smiles, clearly pleased by the praise, and nods.

“Thanks,” he says. “Peter’s just showering right now. I have to pack, but if you wait a few minutes he should be out. Soon.

Quentin beams at him, as genuinely as he can manage the patience for. “Hope you don’t mind if I just sit here. My head kinda hurts.”

Ned goes back about his business, collecting miscellaneous articles of clothing from where they’re scattered haphazardly around the room. Quentin ignores his few halfhearted attempts at conversation, staring at what he assumes is the bathroom door until Peter emerges from it, dressed in a loose t-shirt and cargo shorts, hair still dripping wet. He recoils when he sees Quentin, eyes going wide.

“Mr. Beck,” he says, poorly hiding how shaken he is. His eyes flick from Quentin, to Ned, to the door. “How… are you feeling?”

“Hungover,” Quentin replies, standing up with a wince. “I suppose you’re responsible for dragging me back here?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, still not spending more than a second at a time looking at him. Nervous, more like a rabbit than a spider. It’s cute, Quentin thinks, tamping down on the same urge he’d felt last night- to hurt, to defile, to  _ break.  _ “You kinda, um, passed out? And I didn’t know where you’re staying, so…”

“Well, thank you for that. I’m a little embarrassed, to be honest. Usually I can handle my liquor better than that.” He takes a step forward and feels a little thrill in his stomach when Peter full-body  _ flinches.  _ As if Quentin’s going to  _ hit  _ him. “I can only hope I didn’t say anything that would give me reason to be even  _ more  _ embarrassed.”

“No!” Peter says, far too quickly. “No, you…” He swallows. “Didn’t.”

Quentin can feel Ned watching them. That boy definitely knows that something is wrong, but Peter won’t say anything. Quentin can tell it’s hurting him not to, but he won’t. He  _ can’t. _

After all- Mysterio is a good man, already haunted by the deaths of his family and the destruction of his world. Peter’s too kind, far too kind, to make him bear another cross.

Knowing this, Quentin can’t help but twist the knife.

“I kinda remember going on about my wife at you before everything sort of blurs out,” he says, taking another step forwards. Peter looks absolutely miserable, forcing himself not to jerk away as Quentin reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for listening to that. It’s pretty heavy stuff, I know.”

Peter is staring at his feet, and Quentin can feel him trembling again. It’s a heady type of thrill, having this kind of power over him.

“It’s fine,” Peter mumbles. “I didn’t mind. Don’t mind.”

Squeezing his shoulder, Quentin grins.

“Thanks for everything, kid.”  _ Including the best orgasm I’ve had in the last month.  _ “Hey, I have to leave- but if I’m in New York, I’ll try to hit you up, alright? I want to see if that pizza place I used to go to exists in this dimension, too.”

Peter gives a halfhearted laugh, and helps Quentin slip back out the window. A drone is waiting for him, invisible, but perfectly positioned to help give the illusion that Quentin is flying. Before he leaves, Quentin looks back at Peter, smiling.

“Let me handle the hero stuff for a while, alright?” He says.

Peter nods, tightly, before he waves Quentin goodbye. Quentin waves back, then turns, flying away, back to the warehouse his team is waiting for him in. It was a fun detour- and well worth it- but he can’t afford to waste any more time

After all, he’s got a world to save.

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter @maverickminuano, come say hi or smth


End file.
